


Champion

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trip sort of competes with Porthos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For once, it isn’t the blaring alarm to wake him. It’s the erratic pattering against his leg, and he groans and shifts beneath the blankets, trying to pull away. 

But it’s already tugged his consciousness up, and the artificial lights of the captain’s quarters get into the cracks in his eyelids. Trip scrunches them tighter shut to avoid the inevitable, but he must’ve already given himself away. 

Jonathan says, “Good morning,” too loud and far too chipper. Trip opens his eyes for a glare, regrets it immediately, and reverts to blinking. Jonathan just chuckles and reaches over to gently stroke the side of his face, a touch Trip begrudgingly leans into. 

When he manages to open his eyes for more than a split second, he realizes he’s getting the awkward-reach-over treatment because the closer hand is busy petting Porthos, who’s curled up around Trip’s midsection and getting the main show. His tail is hitting the space where Trip’s leg was, wagging happily under the captain’s attentions. As Trip watches the lucky animal, Porthos rolls onto his back, and Jonathan goes on scratching his belly, like there isn’t a far more scrumptious animal waking up in his bed. 

“Sometimes I think you treat that dog better than me,” Trip grumbles. A yawn comes out and mangles the end of it, and he pulls a hand out of the blankets to hold over his mouth. Jonathan smiles fondly down at him while he rouses. It’s then that Trip notes Jonathan’s already got his uniform on, zipped all the way up to the neck. It must be later than Trip thought; he must’ve slept through the alarm. 

But Jonathan has the best bed on the ship, and it’s a hard thing to crawl out of. Too comfortable, Trip tugs the blanket up his chest, over his blue undershirt—the Starfleet-issue one that matches his briefs. Porthos makes a whining noise as the blankets worm beneath him, but Trip gets them where he wants them without disturbing Porthos too much. ...And Porthos is still getting prime-Captain-Archer-attention, so he’s hardly in a position to complain.

Another yawn, and Trip asks, “You been’ rubbin’ him all mornin’?”

“You’re that jealous?” Jonathan laughs.

Trip’s cheeks heat with automatic defensiveness. “Well, you don’ pet my belly like that.”

Jonathan makes a scoffing noise and shakes his head, not helping things with how amused he looks. “I pet you all the time.”

“I’d hardly say _all_ the time.”

Jonathan’s grin creeps wider. 

But he does stop petting Porthos, which Trip sees out the corner of his eye, because he’s just entered into an intense staring contest with his captain and plans on winning. With a quick pat to his rump, Porthos rolls over and trots off the bed, onto the floor and out of sight. ...Which only solidifies Trip’s point, because he can’t remember the last time Jonathan shooed him somewhere by patting his ass. 

With the third party out of the way, Jonathan leans down to where Trip’s still nestled in the pillows, lowers his voice, and says, “Maybe if you were better behaved, I’d pet you more.”

Trip quirks an eyebrow. He leans up onto his elbows, just a few centimeters from Jonathan’s face, and drawls, “Are you saying I’m not a good dog?”

“Well... Porthos does nothing but sit pretty in my quarters, waiting for me to come home and do tricks for me.”

Even if Trip started off annoyed, it’s hard not to smile at the lame innuendos. He just barely manages. “Pretty sure I could do all that, Captain.” Then he lets himself form a confident smirk: something of a challenge. Jonathan doesn’t answer right away, just leans in that extra centimeter. Trip follows the silent order, meets Jonathan halfway, and gets the minty-fresh taste of Jonathan’s warm mouth, brushed teeth and a hint of orange juice on his tongue. Trip’s sure his own breath is stale, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to mind dragging the kiss on, shifting once to move their noses out of the way and deepening it, nipping at Trip’s bottom lip and tracing the roof of Trip’s mouth, while Trip moans into it and tries not to crumble. 

He can hear a faint movement in the background but brushes it off as Porthos playing. When he tries to break away for air, Jonathan’s hand shoots around the back of his head, fists in his short hair and holds him in. Trip relinquishes to another string of messy, full on kisses, until Jonathan so ordains to let him go. 

Then Trip slinks back to his pillow, grinning like an idiot, because Jonathan certainly couldn’t do _that_ with Porthos. Or shouldn’t, at least.

Jonathan smiles so lovingly down at him, strokes his cheek with one hand, and bends to peck Trip’s forehead. Trip is starting to wish they were on shore leave, or at least a rare, shared day off. When Jonathan pulls back, Trip catches the glint of metal in his other hand. Trip turns his head to look at it, his eyes open wider, and he follows the leathery rope to where it’s coiling out of the open nightstand drawer, until Jonathan gives a final tug and it slithers out and over the covers of the bed. 

The end in his hand is a dog collar, only much too big for Porthos, and the fancy, metallic clip on the back looks more complicated than a usual clasp. But it’s the dangling pendant in the front that catches Trip’s eye, engraved in little block letters: _Charles Tucker, property of Jonathan Archer._

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to break this out,” Jonathan says casually, already moving the collar to Trip’s neck, unclipping it and opening the ends to either side of Trip’s throat. There’s no time to protest, and when Trip lifts up on his elbows again in an attempt to look down and get a handle on what’s going on, it just gives Jonathan an opportunity to clip it back together behind him. The soft material fits comfortably against his skin, sliding down to the base of his shoulders and giving his adam’s apple room to move when he breathes. 

He starts saying, “Now, wait just a minute—” but while he’s busy staring at the collar, Jonathan’s tying the end of the leash around the bedpost in the corner. It snaps and seals together just like the leash-to-collar clasp behind Trip’s neck, obviously engineered a long way from the common dog leash. 

“I’ll leave my pocket communicator where it is on the nightstand, so you can call me if you need to,” Jonathan announces as he sits back, brushing off his hands like after a job well done. “Of course, you’ll hardly be proving yourself better than Porthos if you can’t even be a good dog for more than one shift.”

Trip’s mouth falls open. His hand shoots to the collar, index finger digging under it, and he traces it around to the back where the lock doesn’t change for him—DNA coded, probably. Or something ridiculous like that, given that this is clearly _not_ basic animal gear. But it doesn’t really matter, because he knows Jonathan would take it off if he said to, but he... sort of walked into it. 

He’s dumbfounded, but he is worthy of more attention than Porthos, even if this is an insane, inane way to prove it. But he knew Jonathan had some odd preferences when they started. He’s almost sort of impressed this one took so long to surface. 

Confusion and surprise seems to be an acceptable reaction, because Jonathan cups his cheek again and turns his head. Trip goes where he’s lead but at least tries to look irritated. That crumbles when Jonathan’s fingers curl under his chin and pet his jaw, fingertips dancing down to just above the new collar. Trip’s eyelids half-lower of their own accord, lips parting; he does _love_ being touched, love attention from his captain, and if this earns him more...

Jonathan leans slowly in, stops a hairsbreadth away, and waits for Trip to eagerly do the rest. They kiss again, though Jonathan’s lips stay closed, even when Trip whines against them and runs his tongue over the seam, wanting entrance. The kiss lingers the way it is, and when Jonathan pulls away, Trip follows for as long as he can, not wanting to give it up. 

The leash pulls taut and holds him back when Jonathan makes it, backwards, off the bed. Trip’s wrenched away and grunts, but the soft material doesn’t constrict at all and doesn’t hurt. Jonathan’s still holding his cheek, and Trip leans into it and sits up more as Jonathan rises to his feet. 

“Congratulations, Commander; you’re off duty.” Jonathan waits for Trip to close his mouth after opening it. Trip’s a hard worker, and he loves his job, but he’s never picked work over his lover. Not this one, anyway. Jonathan strokes his cheek for a reward. “Try to look pretty until I come back—I’ll expect lots of tricks if you want to be rubbed.” Trip snorts, and Jonathan does look amused, but more so pleased and adoring, and maybe a tiny bit hungry. 

Then he moves away, drops his hand, and Trip still calls, “Hey—!” as the door slides shut behind him. 

But Trip doesn’t even bother to look at the communicator once Jonathan’s really gone—just shakes his head at Porthos and settles back in to rest and start daydreaming all the ‘tricks’ he’ll do to earn some serious rubbing.


End file.
